"There is a way——" began the young Frenchman softly, shooting a meaning glance at the young woman.
"I do not understand," she faltered.
"I am peasant born," admitted Marteau, "but, though no gentle blood flows through my veins, my family, I think, is as old as your own."
"It is so," agreed the Countess, trembling as she began to catch the meaning. "Oh, monsieur, stop."
"As there has never a d'Aumenier failed to hold the château so there has never failed a Marteau to follow him," went on the young man, unheeding her protest.
"I care as little for distinctions of rank as any demoiselle of old France, perhaps, but——"
"Mademoiselle is right. As for myself, I am a republican at heart, although I follow the Emperor. I, too, care little for the distinctions of rank, for titles, yet I have earned a title in the service of the Emperor. Through him, even humble men rise high and go far. Will you——"
"Monsieur, you must not go on!" cried the girl, "thrusting out her hand, as if to check him.
"Pardon," said the young Frenchman resolutely. "Having gone thus far I must go further. Humble as I am, obscure though I be, I have dared to raise my eyes to heaven—to you, mademoiselle. In my boyhood days you honored me with your friendship, your companionship. I have made something of myself. If mademoiselle would only deign to—— It is impossible that she should love me—it would be an ineffable condescension—but is there not some merit in the thought that the last survivors of the two lines should unite to——"
"Impossible!" cried the Countess, her face flushing. "My uncle would never consent. In my veins is the oldest, the noblest blood of France. Even I could not——"